


Drunken Punchup

by jaspuffin



Category: 20th Century CE RPF, Joy Division (Band), Punk Rock RPF, The Clash
Genre: College AU, Ian's depressed and wants to get off okay, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Party, Phone Sex, Punk Rock, Roommates, Self-Pity, drunk phone sex, kinda angsty, no actual plot, no they're not spelling mistakes or typos it's just their accents shut up, this is just straight up jerking off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-28 04:25:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18203486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaspuffin/pseuds/jaspuffin
Summary: Ian has a thing for Joe, who happens to be his flatmate, and needs comfort after a bad day.





	Drunken Punchup

**Author's Note:**

> !! TW/CW for coughing up blood !!

Crouching over the toilet, spluttering out blood, alcohol, and the small amount of food he'd had the past forty eight hours, Ian Curtis’ night could only get worse from here. The coughing lasted the whole day and very nearly got him sent home from sociology studies had it not been for a kindly girl’s water bottle. It's a little contaminated now, but whatever gets him through. Rumours of a virus circulated on campus and Ian supposed he caught it, but in terms of what was normal and what was on the deathbed tier for his well-being he could easily excuse this as a passing flu. Joe, his flatmate, left for a party in the building opposite earlier. One thing he and Ian had in common at the moment was their pathetic drunkenness.

 

Fifteen minutes, as he watched the clock, he's been throwing up for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes ago, Joe was still here. If Joe was still here like he was fifteen minutes ago then Ian could have some comfort, but the arse naturally had to show up to a party fifteen minutes ago.

 

 _He's probably out there giving some girl a fifteen minute shag_ , Ian reckoned, his cold face pressed against the bathroom wall trying to catch a breath. _Things would be easier if he wasn't such an extrovert. Somehow I don't believe that's going to change soon._

 

Ian wasn’t invited. Ian’s never invited. He blames it on his lack of a grasp on sociality and human nature. Lucky man, Joe was. He could talk to people, make things happen. Not to mention his band gained far more net recognition, sort of a strange notion since Joy Division formed in the same bloody year. Where's the sense in that? Ian’s morbid, Joe’s political. People like both.

 

What does he care? Ian’s used to this system; others are adored and he's the black sheep. It's nice to be adored, sure, but it won't get you anywhere in life. The part of him that isn't focused on peppering in a little self deprecation whenever it fits the moment adores people like Joe. Competent, witty, oddly gorgeous  - Ian would never admit any of these things if the world was promised to him. Sure, he’s skull numbingly pandering at times but he doesn't look through Ian, doesn't see him as blank. And let’s just say Ian’s irrational self-confidence (or lack thereof) drew anybody emotionally tolerant to him nearer. Joe's nice as a flatmate, if only they were closer--

 

_Christ, Curtis, are you some kind of queer? Stop, just stop thinking about this. You’re drunk, you’re not attracted to him. You’re drunk, you need help. You’re drunk, you’re a nuisance. You’re drunk, you’re not a faggot. You’re drunk._

 

These excruciating monologues his inner voice gave out seemed to worsen by the day, like his sickness worsened through the night. He thought about calling the house hosting the party just to get in contact with his flatmate. The lengths he'll go through to potentially annoy someone are incredible. No, he's not a self confessed wanker and most people don't know him well enough to say anything of the sort about him with confidence, but Joe has the tendency to be just as irritating - so why not just return the favour? Ian’s head was clouded by fatigue and hunger so bitterly he didn't know of any better at this point. Dragging himself out of the bathroom would be sensible.

 _Too_ sensible.

_Too sensible for Ian._

 

At the same time his bed was the last place he wanted to be, he owes this mainly to the instantaneous rushes of fear streaking down him every time he enters the room. He'd previously convinced himself that there's no reason for the night terrors to happen, it's just a case of underlying trauma yet to address, along with an overall hatred of sleep and its confines.

 

The second hand of the clock went on and on, patronising Ian to the bone. Go on Curtis, call him. You have time. You need your crutch. Call him.

 

He forced his legs up and straightened out his cardigan, trying to make sense of what he saw while stumbling over to the lounge telephone. While the aftertaste of two and a half straight cans of Stella Artois concocted with hints of blood and brioche was bad enough he wasn’t blackout drunk, thank God. So if it makes him so miserable, why do it? Self care has never been in the mind of a Curtis. He never got aggressive when drunk, obnoxious and senseless for sure, but never a danger.

 

“1, 7, 4, 9, 9, 8… fuck, digits, digits- 1, 0, 2,”

Ian pattered his fingertips around the lead of the telephone, twirling along with the coil while waiting for an answer. It was picked up by someone with a strong, semi-unintelligible Scouse accent. “Yeah, um, hi, is… Strummer there? Huh? Oh, it’s Ian. Ian Curtis? The skinny bloke you- uh, you never invite to anything. Mm hm. I’m looking for Joe Strummer, I’m his flatmate. Yes, yeah, the brown haired twig. Yeah. Huh? Look, please, it’s- god, it’s an emergency, okay?”

 

There was a disconnection, when to his relief;

 

“... _Ian? You okay, mate?_ ”

 

Ian sighed involuntarily and realised how loud it was a little too late, stuttering over his words, “Uh, hm, hi- hi, Joe. I’m kind of, I’m- honestly, ‘m fucking wasted right now.”

 

There was a silenced laugh at the other end. “ _Not just you! I’m trying not to bite the dust at the moment myself._ ”

 

“Is that so? How’re you managing?”

 

“ _Avoiding anything that looks remotely like white powder - trust me on this, there’s a crap tonne of that here._ ”

 

It occured to Ian that he might be the most sober person on campus at the moment, which is a first. “Ha, ’m not surprised. I just, uh, god, I just wanted to know when you were coming-”

 

“ _Mate, sorry, this place is too loud, I’m jus’ going upstairs. Connection’s better up there._ ”

 

Joe’s upstairs. Alone. Near the bedrooms. Probably isolated.

 

_You’re drunk. Shut up. You’re not a pervert like this and Joe is straight. You’re drunk._

 

“ _Ian? Can you hear me okay from there?_ ” Joe’s whimsical voice snapped him back.

 

“Yeah, um, it’s great. You sound great.” Why did he have to phrase it like that? And why is Joe laughing at that? Oh god, he’s a wasted fuckup. Both of them.  Stupid, stupid.

 

“ _Hm, that’s good to hear. Why’d you call?_ ”

 

Why did he call, exactly. Possibly because he’s a weak little bitch who needs his sweet old crush to cope, possibly because he’s sick and needs support, possibly because he hasn’t realised how internally aroused Joe gets him, possibly none of the above.

 

“I mean, I was coughing up blood and… ach, it’s no big thing. Don’t worry about it,”

 

“ _Tssk, I dunno. That sounds like a near death experience to me. You’re okay now, though, right?_ ”

 

“Sure, yeah. I mean, I don’t know why I called, I’m fine. I’m fine, you’re out there having fun and getting drunk because you find it fun and because it doesn’t make you feel like shit and, hey, you’re probably getting shagged as we speak, I’m sure you’re having the time of your fucking life.” Ian clearly didn’t know where he was going with this.

 

“ _Oh god, Curtis,_ ” he tauntingly laughed. _“Are you jealous?_ ”

 

“No, no… I mean, I wasn’t invited or anything, why would I be jealous? You just...” Ian scrambled for the words.

 

“ _Ian._ ”

 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

 

“ _D’you mind me asking something? You can say no if you want._ ”

 

Ian felt as his mouth grew dry and his trousers grew tight. Now he’s really done it. “Go on.”

 

A door shut on the other end and sheets crinkled. “ _What’re you wearing?_ ”

 

Gulp. “Cardigan. Dark blue. Little bit worn out on one sleeve, over a white button up.”

“ _Stiff black jeans?_

 

“Uh, yes.”

“ _Fucking great. You can take it from here, mate_ . _”_

Ian stayed silent for a moment, waiting for that shame to return to no avail. Where’d it go? Where’s that diminishing voice? And more importantly, what the fuck did Joe mean by that? Ian Curtis isn’t some expert in initiating phone jerking.

“Uh, okay, do you- do you want me to tell you what to do next?”

Joe steadied his breathing. “ _Go ahead, Ian._ ”

“I mean, you’re rather fantastic at giving instructions, you could… god, your voice could make me do things.”

Checkpoint. He’s fucking moaning. “ _Tha’s something you don’t hear every day, eh?_ ”

Ian felt a smug smile stretch on his mouth. “You definitely don’t want the lead then?”

“ _Are you joking? You weren’t wrong about my voice’s power, either._ ”

This was the goldmine. His stomach tensed as he processed the words, pushing out a melting sigh. “This is fucked, you’re, god, you’re fucked. I’m turned on like this and you say that? Maniac.” Keeping himself in his pants while hearing and saying all this was futile. He unzipped. Loudly, and so on purpose. “It’s out.”

“ _What?_ ”

Ian sniggered, “My cock, Joe. Take yours out.”

“ _Mm, oh, god…_ ” There’s his answer. This is fantastic, this is so unrealistic, and this is so drunk. Ian winced as his palm glided under the shaft, that desperation being converted into noise. Noise which was ignored as he focused on what came from the phone. Joe was right, the connection up there is great.

“Shit, shit, Joe. This, oh god…”

“ _Keep talking, please,”_ Joe groaned, needing to gnaw into his able hand to maintain some privacy.

Between gasps, Ian continued, “What would you do to me if, y’know, we were here - ugh, if we were here together?” Then it came to him: they were flatmates. Oh god. They live together, same building, same apartment. Ah well, this drunk stuff would be forgotten by tomorrow, right?

“ _I’d kiss you, your neck, your mouth - that thin mouth, holy hell. And if you let me I’d touch you. Would - mmh, would you let me?_ ”

Sobriety and sex? Sounds a world away, but of course Ian would be up for it.

“Trust me, I ask myself that on any good day,” he groaned, imagining what it would be like to drive himself more insane. His nimble fingers curled around his cock steadier, pearlescent fluid connecting with his hand. "I’m getting there, I’m getting close, please, Joe-” His baritone was quickly breaking into higher range, even more of a whisper.

“ _And, fuck, when I get home… ngh, you know exactly what's waiting for you_ ,”

A sharp whine of his name came as Ian did, blending deliciously with both of their trembling breaths. Sober Ian would have never forgiven himself for this moment, but that's another topic. Joe's peak was a muffled, incoherent name call and how Ian savored it.

“ _Well,_ ” Strummer whispered as he caught his breath. “ _Hope you feel better, you needy bastard._ ”

Oh yes. He certainly did. Ian Curtis' night could only get better from here. 

**Author's Note:**

> Ey, thanks for reading! This is pretty shite but I mean it beats the average length of any chapter I've written for anything so I guess that's a thing. (+ the title is stolen from another radiohead song lmao)


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